


What We Owe To Each Other

by hanwritessolo



Series: The Burden We Share [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Family gatherings were never a thing for the Drake brothers and yet in the aftermath of their perilous misadventures in King’s Bay, Nate and a very reluctant Sam finally agreed to make an exception: spend one decent Thanksgiving weekend together with Elena and Sully. And just like any other family gathering, old wounds of fifteen years past threaten to resurface.





	1. Morning

Autumn in Vermont, as it turned out, was piercingly cold for Sam’s tastes. He honestly thought his balls would freeze off. He might have missed the cold at some point after all those years he spent in Panama, but he could not stand _ this _kind of cold: sharp and biting and cruel. Jetlagged and with barely three hours of sleep, the drive—though scenic at best—became a torment. If it weren’t for his numbing hands around the wheel of his rental car, or the fact that the heater failed to offer him the warmth he sorely needed, he would have taken the time to pause from the long drive, roll down his window, maybe light a cigarette and bask in the view that unraveled around him like a nostalgic Polaroid picture: morning fog veiling the stretch of the freeway; rows of maples and aspens aflame in scalding shades of gold; hills of red and orange and ochre, as if the entire landscape waged a private war against the sky’s dreary and cloudless gray.

But Sam kept driving. No offense to the spectacular colours of fall, but all he could think about was how he was still supposed to be somewhere in India just right about now.

Maybe this entire freezing weather wouldn’t have been half as bad if his recent expedition throughout the Western Ghats had not spoiled him too much of the pleasant summer heat, the exquisite food, the thrilling views—all of which he could never be afforded on this side of the world. That or his long-ass flight from Mumbai to New York simply made it unbearable to adjust to the sickly shift in season. It was a good thing he had some sense to pack warm clothes for the road; there was certainly no way in hell he would have survived in Victor’s old yet tastefully floral Havana shirts and cargo pants. Questionable fashion choices be damned, but he had to admit: those had been immensely comfortable. Even little Meenu was charmed to see him in those clothes. 

Either way, he’s already here. What else was he left to do? He should probably just focus on finding that godforsaken cottage, so he could finally warm himself up with a drink or two…

But even as Sam drifted past foggier hills and even redder mountains, and with the sordid space of the cheap Chevy not getting any warmer, he was beginning to regret heeding Nathan’s advice to postpone his supposedly extended Indian summer.

Frankly, he was beginning to regret agreeing to this whole Thanksgiving affair at all.

Of course, this was all their stupid idea. At the time—still woozy from the euphoric, Libertalia high—they had gladly obliged to celebrate at least one holiday from there on out. But now, turning down the invitation was out of the question, not when Sam had promised Nathan (and even Elena, too, for Christ’s sake, what was he _ thinking?_) that he would give this family tradition a try. And Sam, being a man of his word (or at least, he tried to be) wanted to deliver. He even brought the finest bottle of pinot noir for the occasion. Sure, he may be a lot of other awful things, but _ breaker of promises _was certainly something he was not keen to add to his growing repertoire of crimes. Especially not after what he had done to Nathan. 

Most especially _ not _after that.

He had already failed his brother more than he should have. Participation on a trivial holiday such as this one or otherwise, he was not going to fail him again.

Besides, what harm could one Thanksgiving dinner possibly do, anyway?

_ Well, I’d probably end up questioning my life choices, _ he suddenly thought miserably. _ We’d all be sitting at the dinner table and Nathan will tell me everything there is to know about their new joint venture, their pleasant life in New Orleans, all the while I’d tell them the most entertaining story of how I almost got myself killed in India, how I’m failing to get my shit together, how I’m the incomparable good-for-nothing in this goddamn family _—

A soft and a rather sensual moan shoved him out of that spiraling thought. And then another. It was coming from his jacket pocket; he fished the thing out—which, of course, had to be his phone and its extremely inappropriate ringtone—and saw an unknown number on the screen. He answered by the fourth moan.

“For the love of god’s balls, if this is another insurance offer I’m gonna—”

_ “Please tell me you’re already on your way here,” _the worried voice on the other line said by way of greeting. It was Nathan. 

“Oh. Hi there, little brother_ —” _

_ “So? Where on earth are you? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday morning—“ _

“Whoa, whoa, whoa_—relax,” _ said Sam placatingly, somewhat a little startled with his brother’s annoyance. “I only got here _ this _ morning,” he went on to explain. “My flight from Mumbai got delayed, then I had to book a rental car from JFK since my flight going here to Vermont got canceled, but yeah, sure_—_I’m on my way.”

_ “And by ‘on my way’, where exactly are you now?” _

“Huh.” Sam drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, assessed the area that rolled before him: more maples and aspens and its swollen-red leaves; majestic oaks and its moss-encrusted trunks; an abundance of dew-soaked thickets; an endless foliage of green and gold. The forest around him breathed mist and fog. No nearby house nor sign in sight. 

“Still somewhere in Sutton. I guess,” he answered uncertainly.

_ “You guess?” _ Nathan laughed. Sam was certain he heard the slightest sound of mockery from it. _ “You sure you’re not lost?” _

Sam scoffed loudly. “Am_ I _ lost?” _ Lost in my own mind, maybe. _“Nathan, I never get lost.”

_ “Oh. Of course,” _ Nathan said rather feebly. _ “Okay.” _

“Hey.”

_ “Yeah?” _

“What’s this really about?”

_ “What do you mean?” _

“I mean, you never call just to check in on me. Everything alright?”

A sudden, inexplicable silence. On the other line seeped the thick wail of a saxophone, the shrill peals of laughter, and his brother’s obvious hesitation. It was either Nathan was hiding something from him, or something was awfully wrong. 

Usually, his money was on the latter.

_ “Uh, yeah,” _ Nathan said after a strained pause. _ “Everything’s fine.” _

“Nathan.”

_ “What?” _

“I could literally hear your bullshit all the way out here.”

_ “I… uh, hang on a sec—” _Nathan’s voice faltered and was quickly followed by a muffled noise, unsteady footsteps, a slam of the door. And then another silence, more unbearable than the last.

“Uh, Nathan? Still there?”

No answer.

This time, Sam pulled over the side of the road. He was dreadfully cold and, all thanks to his brother, was now also growing dreadfully anxious.

“Nathan,” Sam said impatiently, dragging a weary hand over his face, “I swear, you’re _ literally _ killing me here_—_”

_ “Hi. Sorry.” _ Nathan cleared his throat, letting out an audibly weary exhale. Wherever he was, it had gone completely quiet. _ “Right. Okay, there.” _

“Now what the hell’s going on—”

_ “I’m going to be a dad.” _

A dumbstruck silence. Then, in an almost unnerving wave of relief, Sam burst out laughing. 

_ “I’m being serious here,” _Nathan said irritably.

“Yeah I know—Jesus, Nathan,” Sam said, pressing his forehead against the wheel, “for fuck’s sake_—_for a moment here I thought you’d be telling me that you’re sick and dying. But, anyway. I’m happy for you, little brother! How far along is Elena? Or perhaps you’re referring to another baby momma here—“

_ “Goddamnit, of course it’s Elena.” _

“Right. Just had to make sure. So. How far along is she?”

_ “Ten weeks.” _

“Ten weeks? Wow, that’s…” Sam trailed off, his eyes narrowing on the road. He was absently watching the swirl of leaves that danced with the autumn breeze until an amusing realization finally dawned on him.

“Now you wait just a fucking second.”

_ “What now?” _

“Really? Ten weeks?”

_ “Did I fucking stutter?” _

“Holy goddamn shit, you son of a bitch!” Sam said, unable to hold back his laughter. “I can’t believe you did it in fucking Libertalia—”

_ “No, no, no—we are not gonna have this conversation."_

“Of course we’re not gonna have this conversation," Sam offered helpfully. “At least, not for _now. _Because I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason why you called me, right? I mean, this could’ve waited until I get there and yet here we are.”

They were quiet again. Outside, the sky had visibly darkened. Drops of rain slowly pittered against the windows. 

_ “It’s just…” _ Nathan drew out a sigh, paused, and sighed again. _ “It’s, well, I just… I’m happy, you have to know that. I really am. But… fuck, I don’t know, Sam. I’m kind of freaking out. What if I mess this up? What if my kid—” _

“Whoa, okay—slow down, alright?” Sam leaned back in his seat. “Nathan,” he slowly began, “I know for a fact that you are gonna be a good dad but first of all: have you had the chance to sit down and talk to Elena to… you know, sort your feelings out?

_“Yes. Kind of.”_

“Nathan.”

_ “Okay, fine—no, I... we haven’t talked about it. She’s been busy—well, we both have been busy ironing things out with the new firm. We haven’t had the chance. We haven’t had the time—” _

“Then make time for it.” As soon as the words left Sam, he realized how sharp and cutting the way he had said it that he immediately regretted being so callous. But if his brother needed to hear his piece of mind, then he might as well tell him what he needed to hear. “Look,” he went on, “I don’t know shit about being a parent or being someone’s husband, and I know I’m not the wisest brother out here and I’ve done stupid things, but I’m not _ that _ stupid _ not _ to know one thing here. And that one thing I am sure of is that your wife needs _you _ to open up to her.She needs you now, more than ever. So please do us both a favour and calm down and go talk to Elena, ya hear me?”

Nathan said nothing. Another silence. Sam was waiting for a witty remark, a snappy comeback, anything. 

Instead, what Nathan said next was: _ “Thank you. And can I just say… you’re not dumb, Sam. You never were. If you could just find Darcy again—” _

“Okay, don’t even go there.” 

_ “Right, sorry—oh wait, hold on—” _ Nathan abruptly broke off. Absolute silence. Then, a series of indistinct noises followed by a voice that was unmistakably Victor’s. Sam waited. Nathan came on again and said, _ “Sorry about that. Look, I—uh, Elena’s looking for me. We’ll talk later once you get here.” _

“Right.” Sam exhaled a weary sigh. “Then try not to lose your shit before I get there, yeah?”

_ “Ha-ha, cute. Be seein’ ya,” _Nathan said and before Sam could even say another word, his brother had already hung up.

Sam sat in solemn silence. Rain drummed heavily against the roof of his rental car as he let Nathan’s news marinate in his head. _ I’m gonna be a dad. _ Strange to think how years ago, back when they aimlessly roamed the streets of São Paulo armed with nothing but their stuttering Portuguese, the city brutally carving capable men out of their teenage bodies and testing their will to survive, he and Nathan only used to crack jokes about the mere possibility of _ this, _ of settling down just for the heck of it: being the best man at each other’s weddings, buying a house somewhere in the tropics, watching over each other’s kids. It all sounded ridiculous at the time. It all sounded so ridiculous simply because they believed that an _ordinary _life was something they certainly could never afford in their lifetime. 

_ Now here we are and my brother’s going to be a father, _ Sam thought over and over, _ and I’m going to be someone’s uncle. Shit. _

Sam dwelled on that thought more than he should have. And for reasons unbeknownst to him, he was suddenly reminded of Hector Alcázar. Who would have thought that there was once a time that a notorious drug lord had tempted him with the very prospect of a quiet, normal life? _ How bad could it be to have a family of your own, to have someone you can come home to, mi hermano? _Alcázar would ask Sam whenever their conversations steered too close to their own personal affairs. He did not mind. It was not like they had anything better to do with all the time they had in the dark and dismal quarters of their prison cell. And with the way the man fondly recounted many an anecdote about how he had met his late wife, Sam was almost convinced that murderous cartel kingpin or no, everyone’s infamous Butcher of Panama surprisingly owned a goddamn heart. 

_Is it really all that bad? _Sam had chewed on that question for years like a bubblegum slowly losing its taste. As far as the Drake brothers’ wayward ways were concerned, all this talk about an ordinary life never appealed to both Sam and Nathan back then. They already had each other. They were the family they needed. Why ask for more than they could possibly have? And besides, _ordinary _meant easy. And they were never meant for anything _easy. _They were meant for street brawls and petty thievery, for unearthing ancient relics and treasures of dead men. 

But if Sam were to be truly honest—and since honesty came so unnaturally to him, this was a monumental feat—to have an easy life, or at least some semblance of it, did not seem such a bad idea at all. In fact, that was all he ever wanted since their shitty father abandoned them to fend for themselves. Because no matter how many times he had expressed his distaste at even the slightest notion of entertaining such ordinariness, a part of him wanted it. More than he was willing to admit, that part of him still starved for it. Because an easy life also meant a _ good _life. And a good life—a comfortable life after all the shit they have been through—was everything Sam wanted not just for himself, but also for his brother. 

So Sam could only be proud of Nathan for finally finding a good life worth settling for. He was happy for him. He _ should _be happy for him.

And yet...

A treacherous train of thought. Its relentless shriek leaving echoes of all the _ what-ifs. _Maybe if he hadn’t lost the last thirteen years of his life rotting in a prison cell, he might have had a shot at something good, too. Heck, had he made better decisions before Panama, or before São Paulo, or before London even, he might have had something better than good. Maybe he wouldn’t even have these nightmares plaguing him every night. If good and normal and painfully ordinary meant not having to wake up in the most ungodly hour desperately clawing at the bullets that no longer dwelled inside his body, then by all means—he would gladly settle with that. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be sitting in a cheap rental car in the middle of freezing Vermont, wallowing and miserable and bitter, wrestling against the horrible feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe he really was the jealous one. And he hated himself for it.

_ Oh, for Christ’s sake, _Sam thought. He finally rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.


	2. Noon

“There you are.”

Nate turned and saw Elena leaning casually by the doorway, looking nothing less cozy in her blue button-down shirt and faded jeans. It was already past noon, and yet the midday sun had been hidden behind curtains of heavy storm clouds that the large, rain-misted windows dipped the room in a hazy light, making everything seem colder and grayer and morbidly morose.

“Hey,” Nate said, forcing a smile, hoping it could veil the anxiety that still lingered all over his face. As sobering as it was to have been able to call Sam, the moment he had hung up he was back again with the feeling of wanting to escape. Or have a major panic attack. Or both.

“Hey to you, too.” Elena switched on the lights. Nate winced slightly at the sudden blinding brightness. “What’s up?”

“Oh, um.” He had one hand reach for the back of his neck and the other waving his phone in a vague gesture. “Had to check on Sam, see where he’s at.” 

“Okay.” Elena nodded thoughtfully. “Is he already on his way here?”

“Yeah. Not sure if he knows where he’s going, though.”

“Nate,” said Elena, smiling amusedly, “I’m pretty sure Sam is old enough to find his way around here.” She found a seat on the armrest of a comfortable-looking leather couch right across a fireplace. “Besides, it’s not that he needs to go looking, I mean—this place might be off the main road but this is the only fancy property on this side of Westmore.”

Nate laughed. She was definitely right. When Sully first offered to come over to his “lakeside cottage” for their Thanksgiving weekend, they had expected a simple space, nothing too fancy. But somehow, what welcomed them was a stately Victorian home that stood proudly in the midst of an eight-acre field: limestone walls, Mansard roof the colour of burnt sienna, a rustic million-dollar manor. Sully, with the true hospitality of a generous host, had provided them a leisurely tour and a lengthy explanation—considering, of course, that neither Nate nor Elena was even aware that Sully had a house, let alone owned goddamn mansion—that the entire estate belonged to his family for generations, something he had recently decided to renovate after years of ruminating on what he should do with all the money he had earned from his questionable yet lucrative business deals.

Suffice to say, Sully’s “lakeside cottage” was no cottage at all. It had an impressive front lawn and an equally impressive backyard that carried the same Victorian primness: immaculately trimmed hedges; a mosaic of rock-bordered flower beds of pansies and verbenas and marigolds; long, white colonnades of pergolas clothed in ivy; a private dock boasting a stunning view of Lake Willoughby and the serrated saw blades of its surrounding mountains now ablaze with the colours of autumn. The lake, enclosed by birches and swathed by thin veils of fog, burned still and bright like a quiet menace.

Inside the house was just as impressive: high-beamed ceilings; hallways ornately decorated with gilt mirrors and portraits; a lounge with a grand piano and velvet curtains; a dining room dark with mahogany; numerous bedrooms that could comfortably sleep a dozen of people. There was also a little gallery, a game room, and more rooms that had Elena pressing Sully for answers. (“Was that a Rembrandt painting you got in there?” she had asked at some point, completely aghast, which Sully only answered with his usual cocky smile.) And there’s this study, with its oaken bookshelves stretching from floor to its frescoed ceiling, and its glass-fronted cabinets exhibiting Sully’s collection of antiques and artifacts that put Nate’s own measly attic of trinkets to shame.

Maybe Nate should have warned Sam about all of  _ this. _

_ Ah well, where’s the fun in that? _

“So,” said Elena as she picked up an elderly copy of a book from the coffee table, studying it half-heartedly, “are you going to help us out with dinner? Sullivan’s been baking his famous pumpkin pie downstairs and you’re kind of missing out seeing him do his magic in the kitchen.”

Nate could not help but smile at the possible sight of Sully wearing an apron. “Yeah, of course I’ll come help,” he said. “Y’know, I was actually just about to go downstairs before you got here.”

“Really?” Elena fiddled with the yellowing pages of the book and returned it to a vacant spot on a nearby shelf. “I’m pretty sure that when I got here, you were busy brooding by the window.”

Nate frowned. “Okay, first of all, I wasn’t  _ brooding,”  _ he said a shade too defensively. “And I don’t brood at all. _ ” _

“Sorry, wrong word choice.” Elena was smiling a very teasing smile, arms crossed over her chest. “Would you prefer I call it  _ sulking?” _

“Okay, I wasn’t—look, you know what?” Nate let out a defeated sigh which only made Elena laugh. “I know a vocabulary battle is a battle I could never win against a seasoned journalist like yourself, so never mind.”

“Alright.” Elena shrugged, her face clearly triumphant. “Hey, Nate?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that you can always talk to me about anything, right?”

It only took Nate one searching look from Elena to know immediately, with such acute awareness, what she was talking about.

“I know,” Nate answered after a strange pause. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Elena stepped closer to him, took his hand in hers. She was warm, and she smelled of coffee and of that familiar perfume that always made Nate feel at home. “We can talk about this when you’re ready, okay?” she said, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “I just… I just want you to know that I’m always ready to listen.”

“I know,” Nate repeated. He reached for that loose lock of her hair dangling in front of her face and tucked it behind her ear. She smiled.

“Um, Elena?”

“Yep?”

“‘I…” Nate faltered miserably. He wanted to gather his courage, to put on a brave face and tell her that he was fine. He  _ was _ going to be fine. He wanted so badly to assure her with utmost confidence that there was absolutely nothing for her to worry about. 

But he did not have that confidence. He knew that telling Elena that he was okay was far from the truth. He was done lying to her, and he wasn’t going to lie to her again.

If only he could get the words out of his mouth.

“Nate,” Elena said, breaking the silence that stretched longer than it should have, “as I said, we can deal with this—“

“I’m terrified.” 

“Oh.” Elena stared at him for a moment. She let go of his hand. Then, with a heavy exhale, she said, “Good.”

Nate blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I mean, it’s good that you’re terrified.”

“Hold on—“ Nate raised a hand, his face slightly screwed in confusion— “we’re on the same page here, right? You know, we’re still talking about—”

“Yeah.” Elena nodded, pursed her lips into a smile. “The baby.”

“And you’re not mad.”

“No, I’m not.” She took him by the hand and led him to sit with her on the couch. “Look—“ she rested a hand on his knee— “I’m relieved and happy that you told me how you really feel. And don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that we're having a baby and we’re starting this family.” She paused, bit her lip, hesitating. “But... but now that it’s here and it’s sinking in, with everything that’s going on with our venture, it’s like too much that—“

“You don’t know what to do.”

“Exactly.” Elena drew another heavy sigh. Nate looped an arm around her shoulder and let her lean against his chest. “I don’t even know if I’ll pull this off,” she muttered. “I don’t even know if I’m strong enough for this.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re the strongest person I know.” Nathan tugged her even closer. “If you can tolerate all my childish antics, then fuck it. I bet my ass you’re gonna be a  _ great  _ mom, Elena. I just know it.”

That somehow coaxed a laughter out of Elena. Then, she shot Nathan a doubtful look. “You know, if you’re telling me that just to make me feel better, I…” She paused. A warm smile began to brighten her face. “I have to thank you because it’s actually working.”

“Good. Because I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. I mean it.”

They fell into a comforting silence. From the hall, the bright echo of Sully’s jazz music spilled sweetly into the room. 

“How about you?” Elena asked finally. “What’s on your mind?”

“Huh, where do I start…” Nate laughed nervously, his fingers absently tracing circles over the fabric of Elena’s shirt. “Let’s see—I’m terrified because… what if I turn out to be a bad parent? That’s one.” He paused. “Then, of course, what if I’d end up like my own shitty dad—“

“Okay, Nate, I’m sorry but I have to stop you right there.” Elena pulled away and faced Nate with a deadly serious expression, one he was certain she always saved whenever she was in the zone writing one of her travel pieces, or if she was determined to beat her own high score on that play console whatchamacallit she had back home. He was pretty sure she had looked at him this way too in all of their past arguments. But this time, there was something gentle in her eyes, and the way she held his hand felt like he was anchored to a safe harbour, as if the gesture alone was steady and steadfast and true. “You won’t be anything like your father,” she said firmly. “You are  _ not  _ anything like him. You’re kind and selfless and you always look out for the people you love. And you’re gonna be a great dad, too. I just know it.”

Nate said nothing. Elena’s fierceness sometimes scared the hell out of him, that was given, but behind this fierceness he had come to know so well was also a wellspring of patience he felt he did not deserve. She never held her affections in a tight fist; she was always gracious to him, always far too kind to tolerate him even in his misgivings, the lighthouse pointing him in the right direction.

And maybe that’s love.

And god help him—how could he possibly not love her even more for it?

“Wow,” he said finally after a long, almost-tearful pause. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Now you’re the one telling me  _ this  _ to make me feel better.”

“No, Nate. I genuinely mean it.” She traced a tender finger over his cheek. “And you know, we’ll figure this out together.”

Nate nodded. “Of course,” he said as he pulled her closer, pressing a kiss on the crown of her head. “Together. Just like we always do.”


	3. Night

Sam did not want to admit it out loud, but he was starting to believe that he was truly and utterly lost.

He pulled out his phone and checked his current location. He was sure about the direction he had taken; he had passed the right landmarks, made no unnecessary turns from the main road. His destination was off the beaten path but thankfully, it had stopped raining and the fog had partly cleared that he managed to easily spot his way. He had been certain that he was in the right address. _ This _ had to be the right place. 

What was bothering him now was that the house that loomed behind the massive iron-wrought gates was the exact opposite of a fucking cottage. 

Sam pulled over next to a silver Sedan (another rental, he could tell by that same tacky sticker plastered on its windshield) hooded over by the blood-red foliage of maple trees on what appeared to be the lot’s designated parking space. In the discomfort of the Chevy’s front seat, he began to assess all his available options. He could check out the house, ask its occupants for proper directions. Or he could turn his way back around. He could find a decent lodging to spend the night somewhere in Westmore, or any nearby town perhaps, and craft another excuse to tell his brother as to why he didn’t make it.

Or, well, he could disregard his pride and simply call Nathan for help.

_ This is stupid. I’m being stupid. _

Sam sighed. He fished his phone out again, scrolled through his list of contacts, hovered over Nathan’s name for a little too long. He has not even called him yet, but he can already hear his brother’s clever and punk-ass reaction.

_ Fine. Fuck this. _

He took another deep breath. Just as he was about to press that _ Call _button, a knock on his window startled him out of his wits.

“Holy Mother of God!” Sam hissed, accidentally slamming a hand over the car horn that it shrieked like a shameless cry for help. He turned, and by the window was a familiar face curiously watching him with an almost amused expression.

It was Elena.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as soon as he got out of the car. She was in a cozy-looking parka, sweatpants and running shoes, her cheeks a shade rosier from the cold. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It was freezing as fuck. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I was out for a walk. Then I saw that there’s another car parked next to ours. Figured it would be you.”

“Oh.”

“And you were in there for a really long time, so. Yeah.” 

“Well, I thought I was…” Sam trailed off. He looked at the house behind Elena, then back at her. “I’m in the right place, am I?”

“Yup.” Elena was smiling. “Trust me, that was our reaction when we first got here, too. Seriously, Sullivan needs to work on his definition of a cottage.”

Sam stared at her. “Christ, Victor _ owns _ this place?”

Elena nodded in response. “C’mon,” she said cheerily, nodding her head towards the gate, “Let’s get inside. I’ll let Sullivan explain everything to you and maybe get him to take you on his personal tour.”

Sam grabbed his duffel from the trunk and let Elena lead the way.

The sun slowly plummeted over the horizon, simmering gold through the trees, scorching the sky like a third-degree burn. There was no noise except for the crunch of their shoes on the carpet of gravel and dried leaves, the whistle of the wind, the chorus of birdsong from somewhere up the canopies. The air was sharp and chilly. Not far away, the Mansard roof and the whitewashed façade of Sully’s estate began to reveal itself behind the veil of autumn foliage like an enigmatic bride.

“By the way,” Sam began as they climbed the front steps, “I heard from Nathan. Congratulations. Good job for making me an uncle.”

Elena laughed. “You’re welcome. Glad to be of service, I guess.”

“Now I hope you don’t mind if I teach your kid a thing or two about picking locks and—”

“Oh don’t even think about _ that.” _

“Alright. I’ll simply bore them to death.”

“Now that’s impossible. Trouble makes you the least boring person I know.”

“Whoa, now I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.”

“It _ is _a compliment.” She turned to face him, smiled at him knowingly. “But y’know, I suppose I should thank you, too.”

“Really?” Sam quirked a curious brow. “For what?”

“Nate told me about your sage advice.” 

“Oh. That.” Sam shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it sagely,” he said, “but more like a push in the right direction.” 

“Of course. But I appreciate it, really. Anyway,” she said as she casually opened the mahogany doors before them, “After you.”

Elena ushered Sam inside the house. Walking into the foyer, he found himself taking a sharp inhale and stuttering to a halt: gilt mirrors and chandeliers, potted palms and porcelain vases, plaster-medallioned ceiling and ivory floors polished to saintly perfection. Down to the wide archway to his immediate right was a gallery exquisitely curated with the finest marble sculptures and Impressionist paintings (there were a couple from Monet and Cézanne and Renoir which he recognized almost immediately, like spotting a familiar face in a crowd of strangers, and he hated how he still knew this because this was Darcy’s thing and _ fuck _ he did not need to be reminded of her at this time of day), a couple of photographs and portraits lining the walls, and ancient pieces that would probably cost more than his life. Somewhere, the jazz music he had heard earlier from the phone echoed like a sickly sweet invitation. Even the room smelled nice and elegant: of roast beef, of roses, of cigars and big money. Also, it was comfortably warm.

Startled and half-dazed, not quite sure what he was seeing or where he was even, as if he had been suddenly jettisoned to outer space, Sam turned to Elena and said: “This is… are you positively _ sure _this is Victor’s house?”

Elena huffed an amused laugh. “I know it’s a lot to take in but yeah.” She shouldered off her parka and hung it over a coat rack. She helped Sam out of his jacket, too. “Nate and Sully’s in the kitchen—”

“I’ll be goddamned—look who decided to show up.”

A rich and sonorous voice that Sam knew so well rang out and sauntered into the hall. 

“Victor.” Sam offered a small nod as the one and only man of the house—nay, _ mansion_—gave him a strong, parental hug which he returned rather sheepishly. Though he found it strange to be shown such an affectionate gesture, it was even stranger for him to see Victor outside his usual colourful Havana shirts; in his gray long-sleeved turtleneck and dark trousers, he almost seemed so foreign. Warm and snug, sure—but still painfully foreign. Despite that, he still carried that same slick and silvery charm as if he never aged a day. 

“Well now.” Victor stepped back, clapping both hands on Sam’s broad shoulders. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t show up.” 

“What can I say? I live to disappoint.” Sam shrugged. “But anyway,” he said, “be honest with me: who did you murder to afford this place, huh? We had all the time in Lisbon and you didn’t tell me about this!”

“I’m glad to let you know that I didn’t get my hands bloody to get this place. This belonged to my family for generations.” Victor extracted a pack from the back pocket of his jeans and lit a cigar. “This—“ he was gesturing a hand in the air, the curl of smoke rising between his fingers— “had been in tatters a couple of years back. Had to make sure this entire place was in its pristine condition before I had anyone come over and see it.”

“And that’s only half of the story,” Elena added. She crossed her arms and looked at Victor critically. “Wait until you hear about how he acquired a certain Rembrandt piece.”

Sam waved away Elena’s words with an incredulous hand. “Wait a fucking second.” He stared at Victor. “Did I hear that right? _ You _ have a goddamn _ Rembrandt? _ What the—”

“Elena? Sully? You guys left me in the kitchen and you all know how I’m accident-prone—oh, about time you got here!” 

Sam turned and was welcomed by Nathan with a firm slap on his back as soon as he walked in. He was wearing a dark cashmere sweater, ripped jeans, and one of those aprons with an obscenely suggestive text that said _ May I suggest this sausage _written in a terrible font face. 

“Why hello there, little brother,” Sam said a shade too mockingly. “Don’t you look dashing.”

Nathan scowled. “Okay, before you even judge me,” he began to tell Sam defensively, “I have to say that _ this—” _ he gestured a hand over his apron— “belongs to Sully.”

“Not that I needed clarification, but okay,” Sam said smugly. They all laughed. 

“Look, kid,” said Victor, turning to Nathan, “why don’t you take your brother to his room? Elena and I will take care of things down here.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Nathan peeled off the apron and handed it to Victor. “Can’t bear the thought of being the jackass to accidentally burn your mansion.”

Victor shook his head. “That’s why I’m effectively relieving you of kitchen duty. Now scoot.”

Sam followed Nathan down the hall, up a sweeping staircase, and then another hall with mahogany doors leading to more rooms. More photographs and more gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls. Everywhere smelled sweet and musty and oppressively opulent.

“Here we are,” said Nathan as he opened the last door at the end of the corridor. 

Obviously, the room was nothing less lavish than what Sam had seen thus far from the entire house. Stepping inside, it was as if he had slipped into a different time period, some Gothic universe that distinctly reeked of that 19th-century grandeur: fancy carpets on hardwood floors, paneled walls of deep green, gray velvet curtains draped over large windows. A pair of armchairs and a lumpy sofa upholstered in rose-patterned fabric were primly arranged opposite a marble fireplace. Figurines and books occupied any available surface. In the middle of the room, an ornately carved four-poster bed covered in fluffy linens seduced Sam with the lure of much-needed sleep.

“Jesus,” he said, dropping his bag next to a rosewood desk. “This house is fucking _ nuts.” _

Nathan laughed. “I know,” he said. “This is like one of those rooms in Hampton Court Palace. Remember—“

“Yeah, yeah—first heist with Cutter, I know.” _ And with Darcy, too. _Sam winced an empty smile. “Don’t need to remind me,” he muttered almost to himself. “So—“ he paced across the room, looking around earnestly, decidedly eager to change the subject— “how did the talk go with the wife?”

“Oh.” Nathan sat at the edge of the bed. “It was okay. Got to sort things out. And…” He trailed off. “Well, you were right,” he said quietly.

Sam stopped and narrowed his eyes at Nathan, a snarky smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come again? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Nathan snorted a derisive laugh. “You just want me to say it again, don’t you?”

“I _ really _ need you to say it again ‘cause I didn’t hear it the first time.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Really? So that’s how it is?”

“Fine, fine. I said you were right.”

Sam beamed a triumphant smiled. “Why, thank you.” 

“No, thank _ you.” _

They did not say anything for a while. Then, Nathan got up and walked to the door. “Anyway,” he said, awkwardly clearing his throat, “I know you’re tired, so I’ll leave and give you time for a decent shut-eye. Dinner’s at eight, by the way.”

“Yeah, sure. Got it.”

Left to his own devices, Sam began to look around the room with a studied carefulness, examining every trinket and decor he could find like a detective dusting for fingerprints. He soon lost interest. He rarely got bored with things like these, but perhaps it was the exhaustion. Perhaps it was an exhaustion of an alien stranded in a different time, trying to phone home. 

But there was no home. He never had one. And somehow, as he laid down on the bed in resignation, staring at the ceiling, he felt like he was not supposed to be here at all. 

* * *

Sam is back in his prison cell in Panama. 

He is supposed to be used to this by now—as one does, he guessed, if one had spent more than a decade incarcerated for a crime he did not commit—except the rush of terror that cuts him is a freshly sharpened blade. The trauma resurrects itself anew. It does not settle to be a memory so it replays itself like this:

Two men seize him by the arms, dragging him out and throwing him into the darkness. He is welcomed by a sharp embrace of a metal pipe, of many pairs of fists, and his knees, oh his knees are traitorous allies that buckle and tremble onto the cold, shit-stained floor. His bullet wounds have not fully recovered yet but the guards are his doctors believing that he will find his healing in the violence. This is his medicine. They watch him swallow and gag and retch. _ Get used to it, _ they say. _ This will make a better man out of you, _ says another. _ This is what your freedom looks like now, _ someone else spits out. The men restore his body with bruises. Paints him purple and pink and bloody. Split lip and swollen eyes. What is his body but a dishrag pulp of flesh? Pain is as sweet as morphine, a name that his body has memorized like an old lover’s kiss. So he takes and takes and takes. He does not scream. He does not beg them to stop. But he cries. His sobs echo without a sound. He lets his own voice choke him until they kill him for good.

* * *

Sam had meant to only sleep for a few hours, but he woke up sweating and with a heaving start to find the room bathed in silvery moonlight that made everything seem so startling and disarmingly unreal. Groggily, he looked around and the first one he saw was a woman sitting by the side of his bed.

And he was gripping her wrist like he was squeezing the life out of her.

It took him seconds to realize that it was Elena.

He let go of her, suddenly aflame with embarrassment.

“Shit, I—“ he stammered, running a hand over his hair, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp— “I’m so, _ so _ sorry, I didn’t—“

“Hey, it’s alright,” Elena said. She was looking at him with a pained and worried expression on her face that made his embarrassment even worse. “Bad dream?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“For how long have you been going through this?”

Sam did not answer. He did not know what he should tell her. He could only avoid her gaze like a fretful child, and a part of him hated it.

Before the silence could stretch on for more uncomfortable minutes, Elena got up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” she said regretfully. “Anyway, Nate was supposed to be the one to wake you up, but Sully sent him for a quick errand but um, I’m here to let you know that dinner’s ready.”

Sam nodded weakly. “Right. Uh, Elena?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell Nathan about this.”

Elena stared at him with obvious admonishment, as if she was holding back the judgment she was trying to pass. “Okay, I won’t,” she said finally. “Because I trust that you’ll be the one to tell him about it.”

Sam said nothing. He watched Elena close the door behind her. 


	4. Midnight

To the casual observer, Sam may have appeared to be in his usual self at the dinner table, but Nate knew better.

Despite everything they ate that evening—roast turkey, herbed chicken, green bean casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, Sully’s surprisingly delectable pumpkin pie, an overwhelming array of plates in both variety and amount—the revelry and the heavy trickle of liquor did not distract Nate from the glaring oddities of his brother’s behaviour. For instance: Sam barely touched his food. He ate little and drank even less. With three bottles of champagne on top of the cocktails that began before dinner, and wine on top of that, it baffled Nate how Sam—notorious drinker and alcohol connoisseur—could refuse a drink when he offered to pour him another glass of Sully’s finest scotch. Sam is _ never _one to turn down a drink. He is never one to drink in moderation, either.

And was it just him or did Nate see Sam flinch when Sully first uncorked a bottle of champagne? 

Anyway, Nate shrugged that one off. He supposed that it didn’t matter because that evening, Sam played the part of a gracious guest, the life of the party. He giddily went on with the stream of conversation, gladly indulging Elena and Sully with his countless tales and hilarious anecdotes from their years back in São Paulo and London, jumping from one subject to another, jovially proposing toasts to everything that came to mind, yet never quite draining his glass like he always used to. 

Maybe this was Sam’s way of turning over a new leaf, Nate had thought at some point during the course of all the cackle and laughter. Maybe Sam, between the time they had last seen him in Madagascar up until this evening, had decided to completely give up on his vices. That was reasonable. And it was not that Nate doubted the possibility of Sam’s sudden change in lifestyle—he simply doubted the suddenness of it. After all, habits are hard to break; obsessions even harder. 

So when Nate saw how Sam declined Sully’s extremely rare offer for a cigar, he knew something was wrong. Something had to be _ wrong. _

Sam never _ ever _turns down a cigar.

“Ain’t that a first,” Sully said—just visibly surprised as Nate—as he reached for the carafe of cranberry juice for Elena. 

“Hey, I’ll take one later,” Sam said, horribly non-committal. He was fiddling with a coin between his fingers. “Besides—” he nodded at Elena across from him— “we can’t smoke in front of our mom-to-be.”

“Now _ that’s _a first.” Nate narrowed his eyes on Sam. “That’s awfully considerate of you,” he said dryly as he grabbed another slice of Sully’s pie. 

Sam snorted. “I _ am _considerate. You wound me, little brother.”

“Hey guys, c’mon.” Elena poured herself a glass of the only drink she could consume at the dinner table, took a sip, and smiled. “No one should have to cut back on their nicotine intake at my expense. I can step away—“

“Nah, Elena—you have to stay and hear this one out,” insisted Sam. “I was getting to the best part! So as I was saying…”

The dining room was whirling at what was now a slightly dizzying velocity as Sam continued prattling on about one of their shipwreck dives in the Philippines back in the day. Or was that in Cambodia? Nate could not remember. Heck, Nate was not even following the conversation. Everything became background noise. He was spacing out, absently staring at a painting plastered on the wall, consumed by a worry he could not even name. Has Sam always been this talkative? Sure, he was gregarious and charming, and he could be _ this _ chatty when he’s drunk. But Sam was far from drunk. 

Nate, though...

_ Either I’m the one really drunk right now, or something is very, very wrong. _

“Hey, Nate? Still with us?”

Elena nudged Nate by the shoulder. Nate saw everyone had stopped talking and drifted into a curious silence.

“Yep, still here. Sorry.” Nate cleared his throat, dragged a tired hand over his face. “Uh, Sam?”

Sam looked up. “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”

This time, the silence that fell was brutally heavy. Elena and Sully exchanged a strange look. The aroma of cinnamon and wine lingered in their midst like an uninvited guest.

“Now where’s that coming from?” Sam said finally, his face devoid of expression, his tone cold and unreadable.

“Nothing. Just… how’s everything with you? Like are you _r__eally _ okay? I never thought to ask—“

“Of course I’m okay, Nathan.” Sam shrugged. “I’m okay.” 

Nate said nothing. Since they were children, he always had the extraordinary ability to read Sam like an open book; catching his brother’s bullshit was no different. If their days in the orphanage had made Nate more aware of all of Sam’s habits, then their early years in São Paolo made him a proficient translator. He had him memorized down to a T: first of all, Sam’s _ always _ meant _ always. _ Nate knew this with steadfast certainty. He had seen it all before. Sam said _ always _ like an oath, never an empty promise, a firm and true _ I’ll always have your back, _ or _ I’ll always get you out of trouble. _ Then there was his _ maybe, _ which sounded more like _ definitely, _ the same way his _ later _ usually meant _ never _ and his _ okay _ was never _ okay. _

So yes, Nate really knew better. But he definitely should have known better from the start. He should have paid more attention to the signs. He should have noticed the forced smile, the uneasy laughter, this painfully stilted conversation.

Just as Nate was about to give his brother a piece of his mind, it was Elena who spoke and finally shattered the unbearable silence. 

“Sam,” she said with a dignified calm, “I really think—“

“Look, I _ think _ it’s getting late,” Sam cut her off, rising out of his seat, the chair screeching against the hardwood floor like a sound of defiance. “About time I hit the sack. If you’ll all excuse me.”

Sam disappeared into the hallway. Nate and Elena and Sully all looked at each other, startled and deeply perplexed. It was hard to imagine how only moments ago, they had been laughing at the silliest of stories, drunk in the bliss of their own simple company. Now, it was as if the revelry had withered into mourning, erased and replaced by a strange and inexplicable silence.

“What’s gotten into him?” Sully uncorked another bottle of wine, poured himself another glass, and drained it clean. “Did something happen?”

“I have no idea,” Nate answered helplessly. He got up. “Wait here, I probably should—“

Elena caught his wrist and shot him a pointed look. “Nate. I know you have to talk to him, but give him some time. For now, at least.” 

Nate shot Elena a concerned look. Something about what she had said magnified the gnawing worry he had been nursing all evening. “Is there something I should know?” he asked warily.

Elena opened her mouth and closed it. She sighed and said, deep in resignation, “You have to ask him that yourself.”


	5. Nightmare

To the casual observer, Sam may have appeared to be in his usual self at the dinner table, but he was definitely not okay.

Not that he was willing to admit this. Perhaps his mood would not have soured and he would have been in good spirits had he not woken up from that nightmare. He thought he was past all of that; he had been hoping that a change of scenery would finally do him good—which, he had to admit, had briefly worked its magic for seven consecutive nights back in the Western Ghats, though dissipated like vapour as soon as he returned to Mumbai—and somehow, somewhere along the way, he had thought he had gotten better at keeping the horrors at bay, thought that if he convinced himself hard enough that he was okay, all these dreams would miraculously stop coming back to haunt him. But it didn’t. Most of his nights remained sleepless. Insomnia looked a lot like safety. A bed looked like the closest thing he had to a coffin. 

Yet on some nights, Sam wondered what he would see next in his dreams if he would ever fall asleep. Would it be that time he got badly beaten up by the guards? Would it be that time he spent weeks in a dark cell that reeked of his own shit and vomit? Or perhaps, that time when he watched Nathan’s face blur before him the moment he got shot? Even without dreaming, he could still remember the ache. The sharp bite of bullets. The sickening plunge of falling. His body could still rewind the pain and plummet over and over. His body remembered its song like a stubborn, broken record refusing to stop its music. 

Which was why that evening, Sam could not find the appetite to eat when the crumbs of his miseries had him convinced that he was full. He could not bring himself to enjoy a good drink without being reminded of the blood. Victor popped the cork of the chardonnay and all he heard were gunshots. Cutlery scraping the plates sounded a lot like the grating screech of a metal pipe against the concrete floor. The ticking of the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the dining room echoed the click of the guards’ heels. Everywhere was a constant reminder of what he had been through, a looming fog of every single thing he wanted to forget and goddamnit if he could only scream and run, he would. 

But instead, Sam steadied himself, clenched and unclenched his trembling hands under the table, forced himself to relax, plastered a smile. He summoned every good memory he could muster and told them his best stories that chronicled his earlier adventures with Nathan: their thieving days in São Paulo, their first heist in London, their deadly dive involving Magellan’s shipwreck off the coast of Palawan. He proposed toasts in earnest delight, cracked every silly and dirty joke, swept everyone with the bubbling laughter, the clever banter, the simmering sham of a revelry, a distraction of his own making. Sam, if only for this evening, was determined to play the part of the undamaged and untroubled older brother. Because he should have been the responsible one. He should have been the dutiful one, the one who should have had their life put together. After all, what else was he supposed to do other than to pretend? It’s not that anyone likes to talk about the trauma. No one ever likes to talk about the trauma because it only kills the mood. No one likes to kill the mood because to talk about trauma means having to exorcise it. Conjure up its spirit and say its name. He is never one to be afraid of ghosts, anyway.

But maybe that’s part of the problem. 

So when Nathan asked Sam if he was okay—if everything was _ really _ okay—the act faltered. The picture-perfect façade slowly dimmed its luster. He stumbled for an answer to a ridiculously easy question as if he was fumbling for lost keys. And even as he answered it, _ Of course I’m okay, Nathan—I’m okay, _he was aware that if anyone out there was clever enough to see through his bullshit, it was always going to be his obnoxious and smartass of a little brother. 

And the mere thought of it only left him riddled with guilt and shame.

The dining room seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the silence. Undrunk glasses of wine and untouched leftovers remained in their midst. Before anyone could even speak, Sam excused himself and went up to his room, where he collapsed on the bed in an exhausted stupor.

* * *

Sam is back again in Panama, but this time, he is with Nathan and they are both running. Gunshots erupt from all sides, the sound of heavy footsteps close on their tail. He is out of breath but he does not stop. They leap from one roof to the next, dodging bullets one after the other. He runs, keeps on running, picks up the pace. The rattle of gunfire gets louder and louder. And closer. He ducks for cover.

Sam sees Nathan reaching the other side and stops at his expense, one arm outstretched, telling him to jump. _ I’ll come pull you up, _says Nathan. So Sam does as he is told. He takes the leap and reaches for Nathan’s hand. He clambers up the wall, gets himself on top of the building unscathed.

_ I made it. We made it _—

More gunshots. 

This time, Sam survives.

But this time, he watches Nathan drop on his knees, his mouth foaming blood, three bullets that should have been his lodged in his brother's chest.


	6. Dawn

It was only four a.m. when Nate woke up dazed and disoriented from a terrible dream. He did not remember it properly, but he vaguely remembered getting shot. He was unsure if the last thing he saw was a glimpse of Sam’s face, but as he sat on the edge of the bed, in the warm darkness that embraced the rest of his and Elena’s room, the fragments of that dream were slowly vanishing in a haze. The feeling of dread, however, lingered somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

_ This is nothing. It’s just one bad dream, that’s all. _

Nate took a deep breath. Quietly, in an effort not to stir Elena awake, he grabbed his coat, slipped out of the room, headed downstairs to the hall that led to the porch.

Outside, it was still and quiet, the sky pitch black and powdered with stars, the lake a luminous mirror mimicking its glimmer. The soft hum of the cicadas sang. It was awfully chilly.

“Trouble sleeping?” a hoarse voice said behind him.

Startled, Nate turned and saw Sam on the other side of the porch, lounging on one of the wicker chairs. In the pale light of the stars and the trail of smoke that soared from the cigarette between his fingers, Sam seemed watchful and ghostly, as if a specter lurking in an old haunted house.

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Nate, walking over to Sam and taking the vacant seat across from him. An unopened bottle of whiskey and an empty glass sat on the table between them. Nate decided not to comment on it.

“Oh, well—“ Sam leaned back in his seat, blew out a ponderous cloud of smoke— “truth be told, I’ve never had a good night’s sleep in a really, _ really _long time.” 

They said nothing for a while. A cold, autumn breeze whistled. Nate shuddered.

Sam reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Care for a drink?” he offered.

“No, thanks,” Nate said blankly.

“If you say so.” Sam poured himself a drink, drained it in one gulp. He stared at his empty glass. 

Another silence followed.

Sam exhaled a dry laugh. “You really ought to spit it out.”

“What?”

“I can tell you’re itching to say something. Might as well get over it.”

“I… well, it’s just…” Nate faltered. Hesitation turned his tongue into a stiff board. It was true; he really was itching to say something. In fact, there were a lot of things that he wanted to bring up, every single one of it running in his head all at once, and he could not decide on how to say it, or if he should say anything at all.

“Hey, don’t worry,” said Sam as he drew deeply again on the cigarette, exhaled, looking thoughtfully at the ribbon of smoke that curled from the burnt end. “We have all day—”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Many things, actually. Like… what’s up with you during dinner? You were being weird—“

“Hey, I wasn’t… being _ weird,” _Sam said defensively. He downed another glass of whiskey. “It’s just… I was having a weird night. That’s all.” 

“Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“I…” Sam paused. He set the glass on the table. “Say, have you ever had a bad dream? Like a really vivid one?”

Nate somehow remembered the one he woke up from, the one where he got shot. “Yeah, of course." He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "What's this about?”

Sam nodded, let out a small laugh. “Nothing really,” he said, “it's just... imagine having those for two years every time you close your eyes to sleep.”

Nate stared at Sam blankly. Confusion creased his face, and then bloomed an unnerving realization. For the first time, everything started to make sense.

Nate had always wondered about Sam’s unusual restlessness in Italy and his fear of getting caught, his clipped responses whenever Sully asked him about Panama, his refusal to stay at Nate’s place whenever he was in town. It also made a lot of sense now how Sam had been sleepless back in Scotland. How many times did Nate catch Sam wide awake at ungodly hours back in their hotel in King’s Bay? Nate was not keeping count, but he easily dismissed those occasions as something so trivial that he did not even bother checking in on Sam. 

And maybe he should have. 

And maybe Nate really did not know any better.

Nate dragged a hand over his face. “Sam,” he began feebly, “You've been dealing with _this_ and you haven't even—”

“I’m fine, Nathan—”

“Jesus, cut that crap!” Nate had a hard time keeping his voice down. He sounded annoyed, angry, guilty. Not at his brother but at himself. “Look, I know a therapist who could—“

Sam scoffed crossly. “Are you kidding me?” He snatched the ashtray sitting on his armrest and violently mashed his cigarette. Nate could tell he was pissed now. “Don’t even get started with that—“ 

“Why the hell not? Sam, there’s nothing wrong if you ask for help—“

“I know—“

“—and you know, you could’ve reached out to _ me _ two years ago when Rafe got you out—”

“I know that—“

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because on top of being a rotten asshole, Nathan, I’m a fucking coward!” Sam stood, seething. He looked at Nate with a pained expression that rarely ever crossed his face.

Nate got up. “Hey, look—“

“No, no, no—_please,” _interrupted Sam and held up a trembling hand, “now that we’ve started this conversation, might as well lay it all on the table.” There was a slight tremor in his voice that almost threatened to crack. “You wanna know why I didn’t reach out? Why I stayed and worked with Rafe these last two years? Because I’m a spiteful son of a bitch. Because I’ve heard stories about you, and I was so desperate to catch up. But who was I fooling? I couldn’t stand Rafe for another month and when I had everything I needed from him, I left. And if you must know, I came to New Orleans two years ago to find you. I needed to know that you’re alive. And boy was I glad to find out that you _are _alive.

“But then, when I saw the kind of life you built for yourself? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t chicken out. And that I was jealous. Madly. I mean, I had to ask myself: what could my little brother possibly want from me when he already has everything and I have absolutely nothing—”

“Oh c’mon Sam, that’s just—”

“No, just hear me out, okay? I just...” Sam heaved a heavy sigh. “I… I really did mean it when I said that I was buying my life back," he said evenly. "And the last thing I needed was for my life to be a burden to you. So when I saw how I almost ruined every good thing in your life when I dragged you in _ my _ mess? For fuck’s sake, I… you didn’t deserve any of that. And I’m really, _ truly _ sorry.”

Nate said nothing. For some reason, he could feel his heart limping in his chest, a revolting and pitiful muscle that ached with guilt. He was at a loss for words that they looked at each other for a long moment, falling into a leaden silence. Birds were chirping in the eaves. Elsewhere, the cicadas remained singing their soft hum.

It was ridiculous to think how years ago, Nate had grieved for Sam, how he had sailed through the tumultuous tides of his life carrying the gaping hole of his brother’s absence. Now here he was, listening to his not-quite-dead brother apologizing for… for what exactly? For asking him to embark on an expedition that made him tell a bunch of lies that almost ruined his marriage? For the conscious and deliberate choices he made that time when they pursued Avery’s treasure? Sure, it was a jackass move for Sam to craft a bullshit story to get Nate back to the wayward life he worked so hard to get out of. But for what it's worth, at least Nate had a good taste of what it's like to _live_ that wayward life.

Sam sure as hell didn’t get to have any of that.

And how could Nate possibly live with himself knowing he had not been there for his brother when he needed him the most?

“You don’t need to apologize,” Nate told Sam after a long, brutal pause. “I feel like I should be the one saying sorry. I feel like somehow, I’m responsible for those thirteen years you—“

“Hey, don’t you even dare get started with _ that,” _Sam said sternly, placed a firm and steady hand over his shoulder. “Nathan, whatever happened to me in Panama is not your fault, you hear me? It never was. I don’t blame you for that. Because that’s on me.”

Another silence. Sam stepped back. He leaned against the railing, fished his lighter from his back pocket and lit another cigarette.

“But you know,” Nate said, “you should have just told me the truth from the onset. You didn’t have to make that story up about Alcázar—“

“Oh, I doubt that you would have left your exciting desk job if I didn’t give you a good enough reason,” Sam said casually, “not when you’ve been busy turning down Jameson’s offers of going out of the country for a big haul.” 

“Wait, you knew about that?”

“Like I said. My contacts are very well informed.”

Nate shook his head. “Right. I guess I can concur that part of you being a rotten asshole is true.”

“Then I’m glad we have come to an agreement.”

They both laughed. “But you’re no coward, Sam,” said Nate. “You’re many things but you’re not a coward.”

Neither one of them said anything for a moment. The sky was slowly unraveling into violent shades of pink and purple and red. When the sun came up, boasting the colours of autumn around them like a proud witness, the silence that settled between somehow became strangely comforting. There was no more need for words. It was as if they had been granted the light air of forgiveness, the weight of penance already lifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this weirdly emotional ride comes to an end. I'm still contemplating whether or not I should pursue this three-parter series, one that would chronicle Sam & Nate's days in London (where they first meet Cutter) and Sam and Sully's shenanigans post-UC4. But I digress! Thank you so much for reading this piece, one that I wrote out of my need to get some personal closure & for my own peace of mind to give additional depth and nuance to my favourite brothers, and if I happen to have written in such a way that is completely OOC, I apologize!!

**Author's Note:**

> I originally intended to post this as a one-shot, but my one-shot got too long for my own good so I had to divide it into chapters. Said chapters will alternate between Sam's and Nate's POVs. Anyway. I've had this plotbunny in my drafts for quite some time, and since I rekindled my love for this game, I have inadvertently activated this particular hyperfixation like a dormant volcano coming to life, so here we are. Also, I realized that this is my first time sharing my writing for Uncharted and I am motherfucking terrified. Please be kind to me.


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